put me on the spot with that in my job interview. He asked me to encapsulate my whole life up to that point and everything I believe in into a three-word headline.’
Caitlyn Is Beauty. Caitlyn Is Truth. Caitlyn Is Here.
‘What did you say?’ I ask.
‘It was dumb, just the first stupid thing that came to my head.’
‘What was that?’
She cringes.
‘Spies Digs Deep.’
And for the next eight stops along the Caboolture line she tells me why that headline works for her life story. She tells me how she wasn’t supposed to survive her birth because she was born not much bigger than a can of Pasito. But her mum died giving birth to her instead and she always felt that was some divine deal her mum made, life for life, and the knowledge of that trade-off plagued her from the start. She could never be lazy. She could never switch off. She could never give up, even in her teens when she went through a Goth phase and she hated her life and she wanted to fuck the world like that hilarious earth knob graffiti she sees every night she takes the train home from Bowen Hills train station. Because her mum didn’t die for her daughter to give a half-arsed effort. So Spies dug deep. Always. In sports carnivals at high school. In social netball games where she’s way too competitive and the umpire is always barking ‘CONTACT!’ at her when she elbows her rival wing attack. Spies Digs Deep. And she tells herself that when she’s working the phones on her stories. She says those three words now like a stupid self-help book mantra. Spies Digs Deep. Spies Digs Deep. And she’s said it so many times now it’s become her blessing and her curse. She digs too deep with people. Looks for their faults instead of their virtues. She never really had the right boyfriend at university or any other time and she doesn’t see herself finding anyone really right for her in the future because Spies Digs Deep.
‘Oh fuck, see,’ she says. ‘I’m going way too deep now.’
‘That’s okay,’ I say. ‘What do you think you’re actually digging for?’
She thinks on this for a moment, playing with the cuff on her coat.
‘That’s a nice little in-between question there, Eli,’ she smiles. ‘I don’t know. Probably just why? Why am I here and she’s not? Why is she not here when all those rapists and murderers and thieves and frauds I write about every day get to live and breathe in perfect health?’
She shakes her head, snaps out of her line of thinking.
‘C’mon,’ she says, ‘gimme three words for the life story of Eli Bell?’
Boy Sees Future. Boy Sees Her. Boy Digs Deep.
‘I can’t think of anything,’ I say.
Her eyelids close in, probing. ‘Why don’t I believe you, Eli Bell?’ she replies. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised at all if your greatest problem is actually thinking too many things.’
The train slows. She looks out the window. There’s nobody out there. Not a soul on earth. Just the night.
‘This next stop is mine,’ she says.
I nod. She studies my face.
‘This wasn’t your train, was it?’ she says.
I shake my head. ‘No, this wasn’t my train,’ I say.
‘So why’d you get on this train?’ she asks.
‘I wanted to keep talking with you.’
‘Well, I hope the conversation was worth the long trip home for you.’
‘It was,’ I say. ‘You want to know the truth?’
‘Always.’
‘I woulda hopped on a train to Perth just to hear you talk for thirty minutes.’
She smiles. Drops her head, shaking it.
‘You’re a ham, Eli Bell,’ she says.
‘Huh? A ham? What does that mean?’
‘You’re over the top.’
‘What’s that got to do with ham?’
‘I’m not sure,’ she says. ‘Don’t worry, you’re a sweet ham.’
‘Honey leg ham?’
‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘Something like that.’
She stares into my eyes. I’m lost in the fire of her.
‘Where did you come from, Eli Bell?’ she ponders mystically.
‘Bracken Ridge.’
‘Mmmmmmm,’ she continues to ponder.
The train slows.
‘You want to hop off here with me?’
I shake my head. This seat feels good right now. The world feels good right now.
‘Nah, I’m just gonna sit here for a bit.’
She nods, smiling.
‘Listen,’ she says, ‘I’m gonna look back into Tytus Broz.’
‘Spies digs deep,’ I say.
She raises her eyebrows, sighs. ‘Yeah, Spies digs deep.’
She walks to the doors of the carriage as the train comes to a stop.
‘And, by the way, Eli, if you want to write for the paper, just start writing for the paper,’ she says. ‘Write Brian a story so